The Half-Child

by Angela Savage

  A steep green and gold naga staircase leading to the summit was swarming with Chinese New Year holidaymakers posing for photos with the temple’s great terracotta tiled chedi tower in the background. A meandering path off to the right offered a less crowded climb. Jayne passed half-constructed shrines, picnic platforms, a peacock aviary, and a nondescript gash in the hillside sign-posted as the entrance to the Tiger Cave. She emerged near the summit opposite a snack stand. Grateful to live in a country where no site was too sacred to serve refreshments, she purchased a plastic bag of iced tea and sipped it through a straw as she sauntered up a short flight of stairs to the main terrace.

  The vision that greeted her was a lustrous gold Buddha large enough to cradle a ten-year-old child in the palm of his outstretched hand. His crossed legs rested on a platform of concrete lotus petals, and at his feet was a giant alms bowl fed either side by a conveyor belt.

  A row of vendors opposite the Buddha sold flowers, incense, candles and coins. Jayne watched as a Thai woman and her child fed a stack of baht coins into the little metal dishes attached at regular intervals to the conveyor belt, which transported and deposited these offerings into the oversized alms bowl. Low-tech, high-kitsch, gloriously Thai.

  To the left of the Buddha was a gaudily painted concrete tiger with a big head. To the right was a Bodhi tree hung with brass bells and coloured sashes. Beyond the tree a terrace opened on to a breathtaking vista of the Mae Klong

  River valley and Kanchanaburi town in the distance.

  Jayne could have lingered, but the monks in yellow, orange and ochre robes arranged like a string of marigolds on a nearby bench reminded her of her purpose. She approached a young man at one end of the row.

  ‘Phra ka,’ she said, using the honorific reserved for monks, nobility and Buddha images. ‘Can you help me? I’ve come to see Phra Sumet. His sister Mayuree sent me.’

  ‘You’ll find him at Wat Tham Khao Noi,’ the young monk said. ‘He goes there to meditate.’

  He gestured into the distance, and Jayne realised he was referring to a pagoda on top of another hill.

  She nudged her way through the crowds on the naga staircase and descended to find her motercy driver. He ferried her as far as the base of Wat Tham Khao Noi, which although its name translated as Little Hill Cave Temple, was another steep climb. She followed a path that passed through buildings guarded by fierce stone warriors and connected with a staircase that zigzagged towards the summit, its balustrades formed by sculpted dragons spewing water.

  As she neared the top, she paused on a small sheltered balcony to wipe the sweat from her face. The view looked away from the river over ripening rice paddies dotted with white herons to limestone cliffs beyond. Branches of frangipani trees stretched towards her like hands. There was hardly a sound, just birds and the breeze. This was more like the quiet retreat she’d imagined for Sumet.

  Reluctantly she turned from the view to ascend the last steps to the pagoda and found herself face-to-face with a young monk whose resemblance to Mayuree was unmistakable. He had the same heart-shaped face and almond eyes but he was prettier than his sister. His smile turned his eyes into little half-moons and revealed straight white teeth. There was far more stubble on his head than on his chin. He looked so innocent, Jayne almost felt guilty for what she was about to do.

  ‘Phra Sumet?’ she said.

  The man’s smiled wavered but he nodded. He sat down on one of the bench seats lining the balcony and gestured for her to take the seat opposite.

  ‘Phra, my name is Jayne Keeney,’ she began. ‘I’m a private detective. I’m trying to help your sister to get her son back.’

  Sumet nodded.

  ‘I was actually hired by the father of Maryanne Delbeck to look into her death.’

  He blanched, nodded again.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised to see me?’

  ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  He had a sweet, almost childish voice.

  ‘Did Mayuree warn you I was coming?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I should say I wasn’t exactly expecting you, Khun Jayne. But I knew it could only be a matter of time before someone came.’

  ‘Why are you hiding, Phra Sumet?’

  ‘Because people will think I killed Maryanne.’

  ‘Why would people think that?’

  ‘I cannot talk about it,’ he said, smoothing his robes.

  Jayne knew there were dos and don’ts required of monks.

  ‘Is it about sex?’ she whispered.

  He coloured and shook his head.

  ‘Money?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Maryanne’s money—did she give it to you?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘She gave it to me for safe keeping,’ he whispered. ‘She worried her father would take it back once she told him about us.’

  ‘Told him what about you?’

  ‘That we were going to get married.’

  ‘And were you really going to marry Maryanne, Phra Sumet?’

  ‘I wanted to with all my heart.’ He stared out over the rice paddies. ‘But then she died and I was left with…’

  ‘Her money.’

  He nodded. ‘People will think I killed her for it. So I ran away.’

  ‘Where’s the money now?’

  ‘I cannot talk about it.’

  Jayne felt her cultural sensitivity radar short-circuiting.

  ‘Surely you don’t want the police to come and arrest you, disrobe you in front of all the Sangha and take you into custody, just so you can talk about Maryanne’s money?’

  Sumet rubbed the patches of stubble where his eyebrows had been.

  ‘Most went to the police in Pattaya to keep my name out of the report. I gave the rest to the temple.’

  ‘Minus what you paid Chaowalit to scare Maryanne, you mean.’

  Sumet swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple pressing the closely shaved skin of his throat.

  ‘That was a mistake.’

  ‘I won’t argue with you there,’ Jayne said. ‘You know none of this looks good.’

  Sumet bowed his head, contemplating his situation.

  ‘Where’s Maryanne’s diary?’ she said.

  He tightened his grip on the shoulder strap of his yahm, a square bag cut from the same cloth as his monk’s robes.

  ‘Mai khao jai,’ he whimpered.

  ‘I think you understand exactly what I’m talking about,’ Jayne said. ‘The diary, Phra Sumet.’

  She held out her hand.

  He opened his mouth to protest, closed it, and angled his body away from her. In keeping with rules prohibiting monks and women from touching, he took a small package wrapped in a white pha biang from his bag, turned back to Jayne and placed it on the bench between them.

  Jayne loosened the scarf to reveal a blue notebook.

  Maryanne had listed her contact details, passport number and email address on the front page. There was also a note in English and Thai offering a reward for the diary’s safe return.

  ‘You’ve read it.’

  It wasn’t a question. Sumet pressed his chin to his chest.

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  He shook his head and laughed the way Thai people did to mask their distress. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel responsible for what happened. Does this mean I killed her?’

  ‘Did you push her off the hotel roof?’

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice steady.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘She lost her balance. She was getting headaches, feeling dizzy, especially at night. She should never have climbed up there and I…I couldn’t reach her in time.’ He looked up, tears welling in his eyes. ‘The look on her face when she fell: she was so scared.’

  Jayne looked away. She’d expected Sumet to be a young gold-digger with a swagger and a jaded take on how all farang women were crazy. She’d come to their meeting fully intending to see h
im charged with obstructing justice, if not manslaughter. Instead, she found herself pitying this haunted monk.

  It crossed her mind that it could be an act, albeit a convincing one.

  ‘Can anyone else verify the headaches and dizziness?’ she said.

  Sumet sniffed. ‘It’s in the diary. And she mentioned it to the doctor in Pattaya.’

  ‘Doctor Somsri?’

  ‘No, Maryanne avoided him. She didn’t want anyone connected with the centre to know about the baby. She saw another doctor, a woman.’

  ‘Baby?’ Jayne said. ‘What baby?’

  The monk gave her a sad smile. ‘Our baby.’

  Sumet watched as Jayne headed uphill towards the pagoda. Having come this far, she told him, she might as well go all the way to the summit and the temple. Her determination and bravado reminded him of Maryanne, but Jayne was tougher, wouldn’t scare as easily. After all, she was a seasoned private investigator: the only person to have connected him to Maryanne’s death.

  It surprised him that she wanted to keep his name out of a revised verdict, but Sumet had given up trying to understand farang women. He was simply grateful to spare his parents the scandal of being linked to a dead farang, and avoid the media scrutiny that would inevitably expose his sister and her bastard child. He told himself this was why he’d fled to the monastery in the first place: to protect his family. But he was flattering himself.

  The temple was the only safe place for Sumet. Maryanne’s ghost would not let him off as lightly as Jayne had done. A phi tai hong tong klom by its very nature could never do that. It was bad enough to be a phi tai hong, a spirit shocked into being through sudden, violent death, but to die young and pregnant as well—that doubled the ghost’s power. Only by donning the robes of a monk and living in the sanctuary of a temple could Sumet stand any chance of surviving in the presence of a spirit that strong.

  He gathered the hem of his robes and made his way back down the stairs, the ghosts of his former lover and unborn child riding on his shoulders.

  38

  Jayne gave up trying to read the diary on the motorbike ride back to Kanchanaburi. She asked the driver to take her to a nearby floating restaurant—an open-sided bamboo raft with a thatched roof—moored on the riverbank in view of the famous bridge. She ordered a soda with lemon, lit a cigarette, opened the notebook and began to read.

  Maryanne’s diary was a combination of travelogue and self-analysis, written in a style similar to her letters home: naïve, a little clumsy, at times conceited. But Jayne found qualities to admire.

  She scanned the initial reflections on Pattaya—‘sleazy’, ‘gross’ and ‘not what I expected’—paying more attention to the descriptions of her work at the New Life Children’s Centre and the people she met. Frank was ‘totally dedicated’, Connie ‘hard working and serious’, the other volunteers ‘nice people but mostly older than me and a bit stand-offish’. The children were ‘adorable’. Her impression was that Maryanne might not have accepted the post if she’d known what Pattaya was like. But she enjoyed the nature of her work at the centre and tried hard to get along with everyone. Perhaps too hard.

  Sumet first rated a mention on Monday 3 June 1996 when she answered his ad for Thai language lessons. He walked into their meeting carrying his nephew Kob, making a favourable impression. Within a week, they’d gone on a date. It was Sunday, and Maryanne mentioned that Mayuree usually spent Sundays with her son. Jane tore a strip of paper from her notebook and marked the page as evidence to build up Mayuree’s case against the Kings.

  A week later Maryanne and Sumet were dating again. Maryanne admired Sumet for standing by his sister and helping care for her baby. She was also attracted to him. ‘I think Sumet likes me but it’s hard to tell,’ she wrote on Sunday 23 June. ‘Thai people are so polite. I think he wanted to kiss me yesterday. I know I wanted to kiss him.’

  A week later they did kiss, late at night on Jomtien beach. Reading between the lines, Jayne figured Mayuree must have spent the night with her son, leaving Sumet free to pursue the budding romance. The following day, Maryanne checked out of the serviced apartment the centre had chosen for her, and moved into the Bayview Hotel because she ‘needed more privacy’.

  The following weekend, in her bed at the Bayview Hotel, she and Sumet had sex for the first time—ever, for Maryanne.

  At last I feel normal. What a relief! I was so sick of saying no, and for what reason?—Because I might die and go to Hell for having sex outside of marriage? If my time in Thailand has taught me anything it’s that God has more important things to worry about.

  I wonder if Sumet knew it was my first time.

  I feel amazing. I think I’m in love!

  The journal entry was dated ‘Sun 7/07/96 – 3 am .’ There was something endearing at the thought of Maryanne sneaking out of bed to record the event while Sumet slept. Jayne experienced her first genuine twinge of sorrow for the life that was lost in the fourteen-storey fall from the Bayview Hotel rooftop.

  Maryanne appeared to settle into a routine. Monday to Friday she worked at the centre, first in the orphanage and later with the boarders. Sundays were spent with Sumet, mostly in bed. Jayne skimmed over the graphic details.

  Maryanne and Sumet occasionally went out to dinner during the week, usually with Kob in tow, and sometimes saw each other at night when Mayuree wasn’t working. Whatever the case, Maryanne’s feelings for Sumet eclipsed everything else around her.

  Sad news this morning. I arrived at work to learn that eight-month-old Koong, one of the boarders in the nursery, had died overnight, apparently from some kind of blood disorder (maybe AIDS-related?). It was sudden, though he’d always been a bit on the scrawny side.

  I love working with the babies, but it’s a good reminder not to get too involved. Like they taught us at uni, you have to maintain a professional distance or else you burn out too quickly and are no use to anyone.

  Frank’s said the centre will help pay for the funeral. Apparently cremation is the done thing in Thailand. I’ll probably go along to pay my respects, unless they hold it on Sunday. Sumet and I don’t get enough time alone together as it is.

  Her mention of the death of another infant a month later was little more than a passing observation, wedged between a lexicon of words and phrases she was learning in Thai, and more lengthy descriptions of what she and Sumet got up to in bed.

  Despite Jayne’s initial suspicions, there appeared to be no connection between Maryanne’s death and the adoption racket at the New Life Children’s Centre. Maryanne took the explanation of the infant deaths on face value and didn’t question them, preoccupied as she was with Sumet.

  They were planning to get married, and hot on the heels of this decision came the suspicion she might be pregnant. In a diary entry dated Tues 27 August, Maryanne noted that her period was late ‘and I’m NEVER late’. She was concerned how Sumet might react, but hoped it wouldn’t matter as they’d already decided to get married.

  ‘Sumet told me women in Thai villages often get pregnant first just to prove they can, then marry in a hurry,’ she wrote. ‘Maybe this will happen to us.’

  Maryanne took a pregnancy test the following week with a positive result. She was thrilled and so was Sumet. After breaking the news to him, she wrote in her diary, ‘This is the happiest day of my life.’

  The diary proved that Jim Delbeck’s instincts were right about his daughter: Maryanne had never been suicidal. Her death was a regrettable accident. Jayne should have been able to hand over the diary and close the case. But it wasn’t that simple.

  Monday 16 September 1996

  Sumet and I had our first argument last night. I want to live in Thailand after we get married. Turns out he assumed we’d be moving in with my parents in Australia. As if.

  I’m in two minds about whether I want to see the look on Dad’s face when he learns that his first grandchild is going to be half-Asian. The shock would serve him right for being such a racist.

 
; On the other hand, why would I want to put myself or Sumet through that? I’m not sure I ever want to take my Thai husband and our baby anywhere near my family home. They live in Ipswich, for God’s sake, the heartland of Pauline Hanson, the woman who stood up in Parliament last week and said she believed Australia was “in danger of being swamped by Asians”. It’s all over the papers here.

  I tried explaining this to Sumet but I’m not sure he understands. I mean, he understands what I’m saying—his English is excellent—but I’m not sure he believes me. It’s hard to talk about what’s going on in Australia. It makes me feel ashamed.

  In Thailand mixed race children are considered beautiful and lucky. They call them look kreung or ‘half-and-half kids’. All the top Thai models and actors are look kreung. As I said to Sumet, I want our baby to grow up in a country where his or her ethnic mix is celebrated, not condemned.

  If he met my father he’d understand. No doubt Dad would use the occasion to crack a few racist jokes about ‘gooks’ and ‘slopes’, egged on by Ian in his usual role as Dad’s arse-licker. And Mum would do her usual thing of keeping her mouth shut for the sake of a quiet life.

  I can’t trust them to see Sumet for the beautiful, gentle, caring man he is. They’d see him as one of those Asians they risk getting ‘swamped by’.

  Sumet worries too much about money. He thinks that he won’t be able to provide for me. It’s a big part of his motivation for moving to Australia. I don’t care about that stuff and I don’t expect him to provide for me. I can find work here in Thailand teaching English. In fact, it’s a lot easier for me to find work here than it would be for Sumet to find work in Australia.

  Maybe I’ll get to prove myself once we visit his family in Kanchanaburi. It sounds like such a nice place and I really like the idea of living there.